


Catalog of Non-Definitive Acts

by Ebyru



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Dream Sex, Dreams, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Monsters, Pre-Slash, Psychological Horror, Purgatory, Slash, Spoilers, Suspense, Thriller, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds Castiel in his dreams. Dean told him about that, but he never expected to experience it firsthand. It’s not at all like he imagined.</p><p>Excerpt:"Sam blinks when the first drop hits his lashes. He wipes his face; it feels sticky, thick, and nothing like water. When he looks at his hand, he sees that it’s blood. That can’t mean anything good."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catalog of Non-Definitive Acts

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta’d, but read by a friend (verucasalt123). 
> 
> Written for Sastiel Week over at tumblr. 
> 
> Title and quotes throughout from "Litany in Which Some Things Are Crossed Out" by Richard Siken. Story also inspired by that.

_I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you’re_

_really there._

 

Sam doesn’t know when he fell asleep, just that he did.

He’s sitting in a park he recognizes; it’s a famous one, one he’s always wanted to go to. That’s if he ever found a moment to breathe. Seems like it’s only possible in his dreams after all.

The wind blows, hard enough for Sam to take notice. And he watches as the grass recedes, right from under his feet, like a carpet being rolled out from below the park bench. The grass crackles, splits, remolds itself, melts, crumbles, and the very fabric of it becomes something else.

It’s alarmingly mesmerizing. Nothing like Sam’s ever seen before.

“Hello Sam.”

Sam turns. He’s slightly startled by the voice, but more by how familiar it is. He can’t help but reach out and try to touch.

“Cas? Are you really--”

“Yes, Sam.”

Castiel leans back against the bench; some of his hair is caked with dry blood, but his eyes are soft and bright when he looks over. “Dean is all right. He is asleep.”

Sam sighs with relief. He nods slowly, flexing his fingers on his knees. “How are you doing? Okay?”

Castiel stretches out his legs, head tilted to look up at the clouds. They’re bubbling, swaying with the wind, brewing like a witch’s cauldron in a bad Halloween movie. The sky darkens, and Castiel closes his eyes against the blades of grass flying around them, hitting the side of his face.

Sam covers his eyes with one hand, turning more towards Castiel. “Are you doing this?”

“It is a reflection of the environment in Purgatory. Usually I would be able to control it, but it is more difficult when my grace is weakened. Would you like me to leave?”

“For the sky to be blue again? No, it’s fine. Just - tell me what’s going on, Cas.”

“I suffered temporary damage when a group of vampires surrounded me. Dean was not present at the time. I will recover soon, Sam.”

Sam’s breath comes out choppy, like part of his air keeps getting trapped in his lungs. He rests a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, needing the contact, and wanting to offer whatever he can. “Okay, good. That’s – good.”

The wind picks up speed, and it feels eerie, cold. Unpleasant like walking through a morgue in the dead of night. Castiel looks up at the clouds again. They’re at once burgundy, purple and indigo, angry and severe, and bursting at the seams with unfallen rain.

Sam blinks when the first drop hits his lashes. He wipes his face; it feels sticky, thick, and nothing like water. When he looks at his hand, he sees that it’s blood. That can’t mean anything good.

“What’s wrong, Cas?”

“They’re returning...” Castiel pauses, frown lines making his face look as old as he should probably seem. “The vampires.” His brow creases, and Sam has trouble swallowing. “I haven’t had time to heal all of my previous wounds yet.”

“Cas.” Sam squeezes Castiel’s shoulder; he doesn’t even blink. “Cas, hey. Why are you still here? What’s going on? You should leave--”

“I’m frightened,” Castiel murmurs, looking down at his damaged vessel. “I’ve never been so close to death for such an extended period. I am courting death at every turn, every day.”

Sam scoots closer on the bench, knee pressed to Castiel’s thigh, rubbing Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to be scared. But you can ask for help, you know. Dean _will_ help no matter how he acts.”

The blood-rain pours down on them, focused on Castiel, bathing him in it. Sam struggles to wipe it all off, keep it from filling Castiel’s nose and lungs, but it’s no use. He drags Castiel in, hiding his face with his arms and chest, and wrapping around him like a coat.

“Cas, tell me something if you’re not going to ask Dean. What’s happening?”

The reply is muffled against Sam’s shirt. “They’ve…found me.”

The rain falls down harder, sharper, prickling Sam’s skin. But he doesn’t let go of Castiel, won’t, no matter how much it stings.

“I believe in you, Cas. You’re going to make it back. Dean is counting on you.”

Lightning slashes through the clouds, slamming into the sand barely six feet away from the bench where Castiel clutches at Sam’s chest. His hair is being cleansed of the old blood, only to be drenched with fresh drops that make it through the cracks in Sam’s hold.

Sam presses Castiel’s body to him, staring at the sand being hit, and hit, and thrown through the air, crystallizing as it falls back to the ground.

“Are you fighting them? You can’t give up yet.”

“I know.”

And then Sam is waking up alone, in the motel bed, covered in a sheen of cold, putrid sweat. His fingers are shaking and stained with Castiel’s blood. At least Sam knows he didn’t imagine it.

 

\---

 

_If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window_

_is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing_

_river water._

 

 

“Sam.”

Sam sits up, dead leaves of impossible colours crumpling underneath his fingertips. He’s lying in the grass, not sure why he’s here or where he even is.

“ _Sam_.”

There’s someone calling for him. It’s an insistent, dry, inflectionless tone that almost reminds Sam of someone; could be someone he cares about. He gets to his feet, but his legs feel unstable. His knees almost buckle under him - like he’s walking on wooden stilts – when he takes a step.

“Sam!”

It’s louder now, deeper, stronger, nearer, _graver_.

Grave.

Sam sees a flash of a man with golden eyes and crimson-soaked fangs laughing, shoveling, and digging a grave. For who? For himself? For someone else?

“Sam!”

The husky, rugged, almost foreign quality to the voice catches Sam off-guard. It definitely belongs to someone he knows; someone he will mourn if they die. And they’re calling for him, asking for help.

The man with the amber eyes is in front of Sam now, but he’s only laughing, babbling, marvelling at the grave he’s dug. He’s glancing over at the one it was intended for as he _drowns_ in it, the water filling it up like a bathtub.

Sam knocks the man aside, and he stumbles, cackling as he falls, clutching his stomach. Sam ignores him, rushes to the deep hole in the ground, and grabs the hand of the person before they go under completely.

“Sam,” Castiel gasps as he emerges from the water. “Thank you for finding me.”

“Cas, what’s – what’s going _on_? Why couldn’t you get out?” He drags Castiel out of the grave, helping him sit down on the leaves that crunch under the weight of him. His clothes are shredded, and each tear reveals a strip of skin with a cut running through it that Sam wishes he could disinfect.

“I don’t know what it was. I was in an illusion. I – I’m not sure if I’ve fully escaped.”

“I’m here, Cas. I got you.” Sam helps Castiel stand, eyes narrowed at the slices all over Castiel’s face. “Why do you come to me when you’re in danger? You should go to Dean. I can’t do anything from here.”

Sam is shaking Castiel before he even realizes he put his hands on him.

Castiel wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrists to not only stop the panic, but because it’s in his nature to be silently assertive. “You can. You _have_. You have just saved me from it, Sam.”

The man is lying on the ground on his back, face sunken in, eyes wide with terror, and his smile finally erased. Sam – he did that. But all he did was brush the creature aside. Not even a shove, not even a push, just a simple touch. How could he have--

Sam’s ribs feel too big for his chest, too close together, overlapping. It hurts to breathe. “I--”

Castiel presses his hand to Sam’s chest, and the ribs loosen, expand then shrink back to a normal size.

“You _saved_ me, Sam. Thank you.”

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but the alarm clock is beeping. The flashing red lights tell Sam morning has come. He wishes he could have stayed in there with Castiel much, much longer. Everything is always unanswered when he leaves.

There’s a faint handprint across Sam’s chest when he takes off his clothes to shower.

 

\---

 

_Inside your head the sound of glass,_

_a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion._

 

For some reason, Sam thinks it best to turn in early. So he does.

Sam is lying in bed, the blankets rumpled like they would be if he were awake – from tossing and turning, and nightmares that now include Castiel being hunted – but he’s dreaming. He’s dreaming about sleeping, or trying to sleep.

The ceiling looks like wood panels. The blanket, he realizes, isn’t the one he was just using. It’s feather down with gold trimming. Something you wouldn’t find in a sketchy, small town motel. The carpet under his bed is deep blue, forest green, and darker in some areas. Like something has dripped and left wet spots on it. Or maybe Sam just doesn’t know what modern designs look like.

Sam trails his eyes along the carpet, and it leads to the door – where a shadowy figure is standing, leaning actually. Their chest rises and falls, letting out harsh breaths that make Sam’s heart pump his blood through his body at twice the speed. But he’s a hunter; he can’t be afraid - even in his dreams. Especially in his dreams.

“Who’s there?”

The person steps forward and the shadow seems to follow them; trails across their features, hides them like black, silken sheets, cloth that refuses to let others look upon their face. Sam stops breathing for a moment, his heart pulsing so much blood that his ears are ringing with it, and then a hand curls around the blankets and pulls it back.

Sam knows that sleeve – dirty, beige coat, white shirt hanging loose underneath – it’s Castiel.

“Cas!”

Castiel falls forward, the shadow peeling away like strips of paper, or cheap fabric being cut into slivers. Blue eyes stare at Sam, heavy-lidded and red-rimmed from strenuous circumstances. If anyone can understand that, it’s Sam.

Sam reaches out, and catches Castiel just as his hair falls into his eyes, splashing Sam’s skin; he’s drenched again, but at least there’s no blood this time.

“Let me help you.”

Sam throws off the blanket and drags himself over to Castiel’s side. Each layer is wetter than the last, more damp and humid and difficult to remove. But Castiel just stands there, eyes closed and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He seems about ready to pass out. Sam hurries to pull off the shoes filled with water, the socks stuck to the soles of Castiel’s feet, and rips off his shirt to wipe as much of the icy water away as he can.

Castiel tumbles into bed, and Sam covers him in the blankets. They’re expensive, thick; they should be warm enough. That’s the upside of being in a dream.

But...would it be wrong for Sam to stay? To sit by Castiel’s side? He doesn’t know what the right thing to do is; Castiel’s never been physically close to Sam – except when he’s been an inch from death. Maybe that’s the place he’s reached again.

“Stay.” Castiel says it so low, so desperately, that Sam thinks he imagined it. “Sam, stay with me. I am cold.”

Sam carefully climbs in beside Castiel, and he’s right. His lips, fingers, and toes are all a lilac shade, purpling with the lack of blood circulating. Castiel looks up into Sam’s eyes, visibly trembling, his teeth chattering, and Sam is frightened for him.

What if they’ve been in Purgatory so long that Castiel is turning human?

“What happened, Cas? What can I do?”

Sam pets Castiel’s hair, tangling in the wet strands. He urges his mind to morph the details at will; to make Castiel dry again. It doesn’t work.

“I’m so cold,” Castiel murmurs, burying his face in Sam’s chest. He shivers when warm arms encircle him like a buoy out in the middle of the ocean, whimpering when Sam breathes out warmth onto the top of his head.

“Okay.”

It’s not sexual. It’s not romantic. It’s survival. Sam wants Castiel to live through this, to make it back to fight another day with Dean. Regardless of all the things Castiel has done, Sam can’t help but forgive him; he always comes through when they need him the most.

When Castiel stops trembling, his limbs curled up and pressed all along Sam’s body, he sighs and seems to drift off. “Thank you.”

Sam’s eyes snap open, and there’s a wet spot on the bed beside him. Right where Castiel was huddled up next to Sam and muttering how cold he was.

 

\---

 

_You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together_

_to make a creature that will do what I say_

_or love me back._

 

It’s become a habit, something of an addiction. Sam sleeps hours before his body even needs the rest, stays in the dream for as long as he possibly can, and spends his days thinking of ways he can help Castiel again the following night.

Sam’s _entire world_ revolves around a place in his mind he’d never even known could exist. Life feels more like the made-up part - the unimportant part - when all the stress, the anguish, the energy that Sam has, is concentrated during the time he’s lost in sleep.

Castiel never disappoints. He always returns - sometimes looking better, and sometimes worse. Tonight is a bad night. Sam can already feel it before he’s tugging the blanket up to his chest and drifting away.

It’s different this time. Sam knows where to find Castiel before he even calls for him. And Sam was right; this is definitely one of the nightmarish situations.

The door is swung open, and Castiel stands there, swaying inside the doorway, face and body covered in patches of messy, sickeningly red stains. Castiel’s lashes flutter open, and he tilts his head up to get a good view of Sam. His blue eyes seem dull, broken; the red across his cheeks making the contrast feel like a painful jab at Sam.

One lousy, morbid, violent joke Sam wishes he could step away from.

If Sam didn’t consciously force himself into this slumber, if he didn’t know that Castiel (partially) fled Purgatory every night to visit Sam in his dreams, Sam would think he’s seeing the Castiel from a year ago. The one filled with Leviathan, vessel suffering under the strain, ready to burst like a balloon clamped too tight between unrelenting palms.

Castiel’s eyes roll back in his head, and Sam can’t do anything besides catch him, and lie him down on the carpet. Sam unbuttons his shirt, balling it up to use as a pillow for Castiel’s head. Sam kneels in front of Castiel, whispering, hoping to get a message through to him even subconsciously.

The angel doesn’t wake.

Sam waits.

A few times it seems like something is outside of the motel – the door still hanging open, and Sam too worried about Castiel to move away from him – watching, just waiting to pounce the moment Castiel’s eyes fly open again.

The rain falling down like nails, tinkling and sluicing across roofs and pavement, makes it hard to look for silhouettes or figures, though. Sam shifts closer to protect Castiel all the same. A hunter doesn’t become efficient by letting things slide; it’s all about being prepared for anything.

Thunder roars like a gargoyle, and suddenly _it’s_ there.

It makes the rain part around it, glide off its skin, and it leans down. Staring Sam straight in the eye, smiling. It’s not really smiling, though, more like grinning, smirking. A sinister twist to thin, red, cracked lips makes something in Sam ache. The eyes, darker than night, darker than sin, darker than any depth of Hell Sam’s been to, narrow in an unholy stare and never blink.

It looks demented.

There’s no other way to describe this – this _thing_. It’s a beast, a monster, a creature you couldn’t even come up with if you spent your days worshipping Lucifer. It’s as far from Heaven as one living being could ever be.

And this lets Sam know exactly what he’d dreaded all along: Purgatory is a battlefield worse than being in The Cage with Lucifer and Michael.

Castiel will _not_ make it on his own. So, Sam takes the initiative.

It’s like Sam can’t be stopped. It’s just three thoughts, three actions: kick to the gut, door shut, and Castiel carried away from the entrance. The monster is gone; Sam can feel the ache in his chest slowly crawling away.

Castiel’s eyes snap open, but all Sam gets is a blank stare. Then red tears streaming down the angel’s face. It’s the laugh that breaks all of Sam’s courage apart, though. The demonic, snarling, wretched sound ripped out of lungs that belong up in the clouds.

And Sam is clutching at his sweat-soaked blankets, heart hammering in his chest, no sign of Castiel anywhere. Sam’s hands tremble when he notices the message smeared across the front door.

 

_I will NEVER give him back_

 

\---

 

_Every morning the same big_

_and little words all spelling out desire_

 

It’s not Sam’s fault that he’s afraid; it took almost twenty-four hours for Sam to get the image of Castiel’s bloodied, crying eyes out of his mind. It wasn’t him, though. It was that thing. That’s how Sam finally makes it to bed at six in the morning – after drinking ten cups of coffee.

“Sam, I…am sorry.” Castiel tucks in next to Sam, nestling against the warmth. Trying to provide some of his own. Maybe. Or maybe Sam is just hopeful.

“But it has been killed. I am myself again. We are alone.”

Sam sucks in a large breath, dragging Castiel in closer. Huge, sparkling eyes, clear and perfectly sane, stare up at Sam in a silent question. If it were anyone else, besides Dean, Sam would be rushing to the other side of the room – still mistrustful, afraid, panicked. The hunter in him would be fighting this with every instinct.

“I’m just glad you’re back, Cas.”

Castiel nods, body stilling, frozen like a block of ice, when thunder and lightning clash outside the motel room’s windows. Sam’s skin tingles with the reminder of every other dream that had storms in them; they never end well.

Sam tries to ease Castiel aside – to stand, and maybe check that nothing is lurking outside the door again, maybe to lock everything in sight and switch all the lights on – but Castiel fists his hands in Sam’s clothes. There’s no point pulling away from a frightened angel; he’s still just as strong as he’s ever been. That’s a good sign at least.

Castiel shakes, body hair standing on edge, skin cooling again, pupils blown so wide Sam can’t look away long enough to figure out how to fix this. If there even is a way to fix this. How can Sam convince an Angel of the Lord not to be afraid anymore?

The windows clatter, rain smacking hard against them. Castiel whimpers, burying his face in Sam’s chest, seeming so much more like a child than the looming, incandescent being that he is. It’s almost painful to watch, absurd in its reality. The blame falls on Sam’s shoulders since Castiel can’t restore the pieces of his sanity alone.

“I got you, Cas. It’s okay. I’ll keep you safe this time.”

The wind seems to flare up for a moment, striking the glass of the windows like pebbles, and Sam lets go of the fear he’s been holding in. Castiel’s survival is more important than a memory, just a deep, dark thought hiding in the back of Sam’s mind.

Sam grabs at Castiel’s limbs, forcing him in closer, pushing his hair back lightly as he strokes the top of his head. “I won’t let them get you tonight.”

Castiel’s eyes peek out from below his tangled, dark hair. Those beautiful, blue gemstones come to life. A gaze so bright Sam feels like he may go blind if he doesn’t let Castiel go. Maybe it’s not right, not correct, for a soul touched by demons to even let the thought linger, but Sam’s never been prone to doing what’s ‘right’ when he has another choice not far behind.

“Thank you, Sam.”

Castiel’s smile is brighter than his gaze, a flash of light so intense Sam _has_ to close his eyes against it. And that -

That’s when -

 

When Sam feels -

 

Lips not as chapped as they appear pressing soft and slowly against his, savouring the moment, taking what’s never been offered – what Sam never thought he could offer – tasting, tasting, stroking, holding, _kissing_ \--

Then Sam is awake, feeling restless and excited. His face is burning everywhere Castiel touched him, so he knows it was real. It’s a fact that he’s certain of, like he knows he won’t be thinking of anything else until he’s back in bed with Castiel in his mind.

 

\---

 

_And the part where I push you_

_flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,_

_shut up_

_I’m getting to it._

 

It’s crazy to live like this, to be in so deep, to think that this can continue for as long as Castiel and Sam are alive. But Castiel isn’t being much more rational about their ‘arrangement’.

The knock at the door feels like it’s hitting Sam directly in his heart. Like it’s the final chance for Sam to refuse, the last time Castiel will ask for permission.

He doesn’t _need_ to.

Every night, thoughts are put on pause, the surroundings are changed at Castiel’s whim, and Sam hasn’t even considered putting up a fight.

It must be like coming home, to Castiel, because the door is barely open wide enough for him to slip in, and he’s lunging at Sam, grappling for him, taking Sam far beyond this meager dreamscape and up to peaks of humanity.

Castiel kisses like he’s dying, like his long life is finally coming to a close, and there’s nothing left for him to lose except every moment he can have with Sam. It would be heartbreaking if Castiel wasn’t so earnest. Sam lets him take all that he needs, all he’ll ever want, because Sam has been longing to give him this.

They’re standing in a wide, open field, the breeze soft for once, the clouds still present but not threatening. Considering all of the previous visits, Sam finds this one to be the most overwhelming.

Their mouths have been touching, sliding together, so long that Sam’s lips start to buzz. There’s so much Sam would like to ask, though; needs to know while Castiel is safe. But his grace still makes him impossibly strong, and he’s stubborn like only Dean could have taught him. And Sam – he’s _so_ into this.

Something in Castiel’s kisses tastes like purity, redemption…forgiveness. Like so many blessings Sam never imagined he’d be worthy of. Not like the Righteous Man. Not like Dean.

Castiel’s tongue curls along Sam’s, tentative and playful, but sure in the way that Castiel knows this is what he wants to spend the rest of the night doing. His fingertips trail up Sam’s back, tighten there just slightly, then continue upward, tangling in Sam’s hair, tugging hard enough to get the message across. Sam steals one more taste before he pulls away.

“Dean is fine. I have made certain of that every night before coming here.”

Sam nods because he doesn’t think he can manage anything else. He’d thought this was a hideout, just a safe place for Castiel to escape to when he needed time to heal, but he was wrong. Castiel took the last of his strength, maybe even risked his grace, to come here and see Sam – to spend time with the human he’s come to like.

Castiel is watching Sam calmly – patience personified – but his fingers have been stroking soft patterns on Sam’s scalp and down the nape of his neck the entire time. He’s still giving Sam an out if he really needs one.

Sam doesn’t want it. He’s never run away from his feelings like Dean does – which has made life hard at times, that’s true – and he’s not going to start now.

He nods again, lifting Castiel off the ground, forcing Castiel’s legs around his waist, and relishing the startled look he’s rewarded with. There may have been a bit of surprise at first – angels don’t usually get manhandled unless they’re in a fight – but Castiel gets comfortable, and dives back in; mouth wet and soft, opening to Sam as easy as breathing.

Sam wakes up to silence and sunshine. His sheets are tangled around his legs, and something painfully hard is nudging in between his thighs. One make-out session, just _one_ , and Sam feels like a teenager again.

 

\---

 

_Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly_

_flames everywhere._

 

Sam’s problem was easily resolved; a tight jerk here, a well-placed thought there, and voila - completion. But having an angel attend to your needs while you sleep - fully focused on you, only you, and nothing but you – is incomprehensibly hot.

It was night just a second ago when Sam went to bed, dark and quiet, nothing but the sound of crickets chirping and the other motel patrons getting ready to sleep.

The pattern builds again; Castiel is there, a nameless motel, perpetual clouds, but thankfully no lightning this time. Then Sam can barely keep his eyes open long enough to acknowledge what just happened. Forces beyond imagination stripped him _easily_ , casted his blanket away, and pressed Sam back against the bed.

It’s never been this quick, this frantic, before. Like this is nothing but a race to the finish. Never since Ruby. And isn’t that thought just about the worst mistake?

Castiel is absolutely unlike Ruby – with her sharp words, deception, bold ideals and even bolder way of life. She broke Sam in so many intricate, significant ways. He hadn’t needed anyone that much since Jess. And to have it all be a lie…

Well, maybe that’s why it was so easy to let Lucifer wear him as a meat-suit.

Castiel leans over Sam, entirely too dressed for how naked Sam is, but maybe that’s the point. He enjoys nothing more than being of assistance. His aim – seated between Sam’s long, lean legs – is to please Sam and nothing else.

Before the apocalypse, before damnation, before the addiction to demonic blood, maybe Sam would be okay with letting Castiel give everything and expect nothing in return. But things have changed.

No matter how adamant Castiel is about caressing Sam’s hips, fingers digging bruises into the flesh when Sam even considers moving away from the touch; no matter how transcendental it feels to have Castiel’s kisses pressed to Sam’s lips, neck, chest and stomach; no matter how stunning Castiel looks with his hair ruffled, and back hunched over, leaving a trail of heated kisses between Sam’s legs, resting the length of Sam in his palm like it’s an honour to be allowed this close to Sam; no matter how mind-numbingly grateful Sam is for the first glide of teasing tongue that follows the throbbing veins in Sam’s cock --

 

Sam is different.

Things have changed, and this is not _nearly_ perfect enough for Castiel’s first time. There are probably not enough hours in one night for Sam to show Castiel how much this truly means to him. For him. For them.

Castiel’s eyes flicker up to Sam’s, tongue darting out, sampling the bit of pre-come collecting on the head of Sam’s cock.

“What would you like, Sam?”

Sam groans, his toes curling, and Castiel ignores the hands torn between dragging Castiel closer and pushing him away.

“What do you want? I can give you anything. I will do anything you ask of me.”

Castiel keeps watching Sam as he mouths at the head, reaching along Sam’s long body, kneading his chest, and rubbing his knuckles into the skin. Sam arches up, throwing his head back on a mono-syllabic moan.

“Cas…”

Castiel doesn’t stop; sucks harder, licking into the slit, eyes closed, and peaceful in a way that shouldn’t be related to sex. “Tell me, Sam.” His coat disappears, then his jacket and his pants. “Tell me, and I will do it.” There’s a clumsy graze of teeth along Sam’s shaft, but it’s just – _perfect_.

Everything Castiel is makes Sam feel inadequate; he’s just so luminous. How can Sam find the words to say that he wants to wait? What if Castiel never makes it beyond this day?

Castiel pulls off, tonguing at the invisible teeth marks, soothing them away when there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with them to begin with, and Sam bucks up into the warmth. When Castiel’s lips part to allow Sam access, his mouth wide and almost too trusting, Sam loses his mind.

It feels like ages since he’s come this hard; his spine turning to liquid, his muscles cramping up they’re so tense, his knuckles white where he tears at the sheets, and Castiel just hums, swallowing, and swallowing, his throat fluttering.

And, if it’s even possible, Sam thinks he may have lost himself again.

Then they’re seeping through the bed, underneath, falling down, breaking clouds apart, crashing to the ground like a comet or a meteor. Or an angel too spectacular to be wasting his existence on Earth.

When Sam finally gets his limbs to respond, he notices he’s covered in his own climax, but there are also bite marks and tiny, red scratches along his chest and ribs. He falls back against the bed, damp, spent, and more at a loss than he’s ever been.

 

\---

 

_Love, for you,_

_is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion._

 

 

Sam falls into bed, tucking himself in, expecting to have Castiel all to himself. He’s going to repay him this time; show him how passionate, skillful, he can be with his hands and mouth. And if it’s not good enough, if Castiel’s grace doesn’t stutter to a deadly halt for half a second, Sam will try _harder_. He’ll get there eventually.

But the puddle of blood left on the black and white tiles tells Sam he’s in for another rough night. A moment of bliss for every week of nightmares it seems.

The tiles go through the entire motel room, and, likewise, the trail of blood follows. Sometimes footprints – some type of shoe, not bare toes – sometimes handprints, and a smudge here and there when the person may have slipped on their own blood.

Sam has an idea who it belongs to, but he’s hopeful that it’s not for once, that Castiel won’t be the one in distress this time. He doesn’t deserve to be tortured any more. How many times does Castiel have to dance around the limits of his vessel before he finally gives in to the pain, and lets himself go?

The thick lines of crimson stop at the door, but Sam knows he probably won’t like what he finds outside; the sky is black and blue, growling in warning again.

It takes longer than it should to get there.

The corridor stretches every time Sam takes a step forward, and when Sam steps back, he can hear a muffled groan or whimper; another desperate attempt at blocking a blow to the gut or a strike to the head. Sam finally just runs for the door, eyes closed so the distorting of the tiles, the blood making him slip, all of it, can’t get in the way. If he can’t see it, then the illusion must lose some of its power.

Then the cool metal of the handle is against Sam’s hand, and he’s turning the knob, expecting the worst --

His worst wasn’t good enough.

Castiel limps towards Sam, bleeding gash across his left eye, a gaping wound in his side barely being covered by his hand, and still he’s waving for Sam to get back inside. How does he expect Sam to just leave him when he can’t even get away from… from…

The ground shakes, and Sam very nearly falls backwards from the intensity of it. Then Castiel’s eyes are huge, frightened, dragging his injured leg roughly against the dirt and grass outside to get to Sam faster. Sam doesn’t wait for Castiel to do it on his own when he spots thick black fur, red, beady eyes and fangs glistening with a mixture of saliva and blood, barrelling towards Castiel at three times his speed.

It’s Sam against the beast.

Sam running through grass, mud, puddles of (most likely Castiel’s) blood, and catching himself a few times when he nearly falls into claw shaped holes in the ground. After a minute, he gets to Castiel, and the beast snarls, crouching down on all fours to propel himself toward them faster.

Maybe the creatures have started noticing that once Sam gets involved they usually don’t stand a chance.

It’s catching up to them; each time Sam turns around to check, it’s that much closer, chunks of the ground flying out of its way when it digs its claws in to push forward. Sam has a feeling he won’t get Castiel inside fast enough, so he shoves him, as hard as he can, as hard as his overused, hunter joints will allow, and slams the door to keep Castiel from getting attacked.

Then there’s nothing. No grass, no beast, no mud, no blood – no Castiel. Sam is alone, beads of cold sweat at his temple, blankets torn in places, his fingernails dirty with clumps of mud. But the door – the front door where Sam had pushed Castiel inside – is slashed all across…on the _inside_.

Did Sam lock Castiel in a box he couldn’t escape from and leave him there, on his own, expecting four fucking walls to do a goddamn thing to protect him?

Sam is his only protection.

Sam may have served Castiel up on motel-shaped platter to that beast.

 

\---

 

_I walk through your dreams and invent the future._

 

Sam spends most of the day pacing, until he finally feels his legs giving out under the strain. He turns in at the record-breaking time of five o’clock, praying to all things holy that Castiel will somehow be there and less battered than he was the night before.

One of Sam’s wishes comes true.

Castiel and Sam are back on the bench, clouds rolling in and out overhead, threatening to flood them with rain – maybe drops of blood again – at the slightest disturbance. Sam reaches out to touch Castiel, but Castiel draws in on himself, hands trembling and sickly pale. He doesn’t look like he’s doing well at all.

Sam wrings his hands together, pulse fluctuating between normal and abnormally fast. Castiel’s eyes look dull, glass-like, his hair is matted, sticky with blood again, his coat’s gone – Sam belatedly realizes – and the bags under Castiel’s eyes make him seem undead or maybe…

Close to death.

Castiel tilts his head to one side, peering over at Sam; he flickers in and out of view. Like the flash before a photo or the jolt of light zipping across the sky. The clouds seem to gurgle in response, tripping over one another, each of them trying their hardest to aim their baggage right over Castiel.

It’s easier when Sam knows what to expect.

Dragging Castiel in carefully, Sam wraps his arms around him, stroking his hair, threading his fingers through dark curls and blood that chips away like old plaster. Castiel sighs, and the clouds disperse; they flow outward and drift away on some alternate course. The sky almost seems clear for once.

The zap is tiny, but it’s enough that Sam feels it. Every time Castiel’s figure blinks in and out of view, Sam can feel it seeping in his pores, travelling through his extremities, and settling like lumps of coal in the bottom of his stomach.

This must mean something. It must be important. But Sam is afraid to ask what.

There’s no way Sam can tell Castiel how much he loves him when this may be the last time they ever speak. It would just cause more pain than good ultimately; Sam would be alone, reminiscing over what could have been if he’d only said it sooner, and Castiel would be furious that Sam wasted so much time fighting with himself over something he knew would be inevitable deep down.

Castiel is fading faster now, fingertips and knuckles, wrists and forearms, all turning transparent, gone enough that Sam’s hands go right through each and every part. But, despite the way he seems to be evaporating, slipping away, being taken to an unknown place, like a ghost or a spirit, Castiel still asks: “What would you like, Sam? I will give it to you.”

Sam breaks down, body shaking and shaking, nothing but regret going through him. And he can’t, even now – he can’t say it. He can’t say what Castiel wants to hear. He refuses to admit there’s a chance he’ll lose his last two family members to fucking Purgatory.

What will Sam do if he loses them both for good? How can he cope with a world that’s missing a giant chunk right out of the core?

Castiel’s breathing is shallow, his voice low and softer than his usual gravely tone, and he whispers, “Dean is fine,” before completely disappearing out of Sam’s arms.

Sam spends the rest of the night – all of his dream – searching for Castiel, but he knows it’s probably pointless. Just another fruitless venture Sam Winchester must embark upon to keep the cracks in his soul from turning into rotting spaces.

There’s no blood stains, no water, no handprints, no scratches, no threatening messages, nothing that could help Sam believe Castiel is still out there, existing, living and breathing in the stale air of Purgatory.

There’s really no other course of action Sam can take.

Sam gets on his knees, bows his head, and prays to the Father that was never there for Castiel. Maybe this time He will bother listening.

 

 

\---

 

_I’m not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not_

_feeding yourself to a bad man_

_against a black sky prickled with small lights._

 

Sam’s barely had enough time to consider what he’d do if Castiel is gone for good – not going to appear in his dreams anymore, not going to tell him if Dean’s still all right, not going to hear Sam’s answer finally – when he’s being disrupted.

It’s so unusual, so surreal, that Sam can’t tell if he’s walking. Or what’s making him walk. Or how he gets to the door without having an aneurysm from the constant bombardment of incomplete thoughts.

He feels like he may have floated there, glided, slid across the tiles and carpet on auto-pilot. And ended up with his hand wrapped around a knob he loathes as much as loves, despite the recent trauma. The same can be said about the angel the memories are linked to.

The lights are all out, but Sam feels his breath coming out in quick, sharp bursts already. There’s anxious energy zipping through his nerves, putting him on edge – not scaring him, but charging him up, hinting at a good end to this terrible beginning.

“Hey, Sammy. Help me get Cas inside, he’s pretty beat up.”

“D- _Dean_?”

Dean steps inside, and despite Sam’s recent apprehension for moving aside and seeing who (or what) is hiding behind the door, Sam can’t deny his big brother.

Dean narrows his eyes, Castiel’s arm slung around Dean’s shoulders and his head bowed. He shoves past Sam when Sam can’t seem to move his feet or do anything beyond rediscover the miracle of breathing.

“Dean, it’s really you. How- _when_ -”

“Not now, help me with him.”

Sam forces himself to snap out of it; they need him. The two people Sam’s been missing for months, they’re finally in front of him – alive, in one piece, and mostly the same.

Dean and Sam drag Castiel over to the nearest bed, and they put him down on it carefully. It doesn’t stop Castiel from hissing in pain and Sam from wincing in sympathy. Dean stretches out his arms, his neck and back muscles cracking and popping. The words that rumble out of Dean don’t make sense at first, but, then again, Sam is still shell-shocked.

“I’m going to take a shower and change. Watch him.”

 

And Sam is left there, in the motel room he’s become accustomed to for all the wrong reasons – he thought at first that changing motels would mean he wouldn’t get to see Castiel anymore – gaping at Castiel.

Sam helps him out of his ripped, bloodied coat, and Castiel doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t try to speak; doesn’t move away when Sam dabs alcohol on some of his cuts or tries to stitch the wound on his stomach closed enough that his grace can heal it the rest of the way. He just sits there, watching Sam in the same way that Sam is looking back at him: with astonishment.

They never thought they’d see each other in the real world again. Not that it didn’t feel real in Sam’s head. It was just always tinged with grief and violence, sadness and fear; a blotch of black ink that couldn’t be erased or ignored regardless of the efforts Sam made.

It’s all pretty much – unbelievably – over now, though.

It takes Castiel’s fingers lacing in his own for Sam to realize he’s been stroking Castiel’s stomach just below the stitches. That must hurt; it’s probably still sensitive. Sam kneels in front of Castiel, taking hold of his other hand, too.

“What is it, Sam?”

“I know what I want now, Cas.”

Sam brings Castiel’s raw knuckles up to his mouth, pushing back the bile that rises in his chest when he smells the faint traces of blood there. Castiel’s been through so much; dying and healing, just so he can almost die again each time.

“You, Cas. I want _you_. That’s all.”

Castiel leans forward, his hair falling into his eyes. Sam can’t be sure, but he’d swear Castiel is blushing when he looks at Sam with his lashes lowered almost flirtatiously.

“I will gladly give you that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated. :)


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